


Artwork

by Grasshunter



Series: Summer Heat Bingo 2020 [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25605283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grasshunter/pseuds/Grasshunter
Summary: Sunstreaker has a thing for Ratchet's hands.
Relationships: Ratchet/Sunstreaker (Transformers)
Series: Summer Heat Bingo 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845637
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Artwork

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for this was "something bizarre", and I ended up going for a hand kink? Which is a thing I didn't realise existed but is now something I think I have? Idk man, have you ever looked at like, a labourer's or a craftsman's hands and seen how strong they are and been like "YO..." and also maybe taken a real, hard look at the veins in their hands and arms? Or seen videos where artists do inking or paints or calligraphy and are just absolutely mesmerised by the precision? Like shit dude maybe I'm just touch-starved but hands are kinda nice

Ratchet quirks an eyebrow. "My  _ hands." _

"Well, you make it sound stupid."

"No, no, it's not stupid, Sunstreaker." He waves a hand apologetically. "I've just never thought of my hands by themselves as sexually attractive before."

Sunstreaker’s tone turns a little defensive as he grows visibly embarrassed. "It's… It’s how precise they are, and how they look. You’re a medic, you have all those stabilisers and extra sensory wires built in, and if you look closely you can  _ see _ how different they look. And watching you work is like... watching an artist work, if you want me to get poetic with it. And, sure, I guess I have a little bit of a kink for it.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It makes perfect sense when you explain it like that. It explains why I catch you staring as I work, whenever you invade my medbay with your brother to annoy the hell out of me.” Ratchet can't resist the tease, even at the price of a flat glare from Sunstreaker.

Ratchet looks down at his hands and waggles his fingers, looking closer at the tendons as they move and the tiny, interlocking pieces of joint plating as they slide neatly against each other. His hands are needlepoint-precise but durable at the same time, able to slam a frontliner’s broken bones in place as well as rewire a minibot’s optical circuit boards; tiny things the size of thumbnails. Looking closer at them, Ratchet realises he probably doesn't appreciate them as much as he should; and on top of that, he realises that he's happy Sunstreaker is being open about this.

Ratchet reaches over and gently pushes his hand underneath Sunstreaker’s palm, silently expressing his appreciation. Gilded fingers automatically squeeze back and a thumb strokes idly over the back of Ratchet’s hand, tracing the lines of Ratchet's metacarpals like the twin is memorising them by touch alone.

Sunstreaker looks at their hands for a while, then meets Ratchet's eyes again. “It’s the way they feel, too. The things you do with them.” Ostensibly, he means the small, soft things like this; but a glint in his optics marks his words with a double meaning.

“I know what you mean," Ratchet says. "I like the things you let me do with them, too."

Sunstreaker breathes a sarcastic little laugh through his nose and pulls his hand away. "No need to get so sappy," he says.

"I'm not being sappy. Just honest," Ratchet says, but doesn't push it further.

"Don't let this make things weird. I know how medics are about their hands."

"With you and Sideswipe, everything is already destined to be weird. But it won't get any weirder than our baseline weird." Ratchet reaches for Sunstreaker's hand again, and is pleased when the frontliner accepts it.

Their fingers slot together perfectly like their own personal dialect of chirolinguistics. Ratchet notes with interest how Sunstreaker closely watches their hands together, now unafraid to show his interest in Ratchet's hands.

Ratchet thinks that this is something he can do a lot with.

* * *

“Primus, Ratch.” Sunstreaker’s optics glow brightly as he watches the medic beneath him. “Just like that.”

Ratchet, in response, drags his hand slowly up Sunstreaker’s spike and massages upwards until he swipes his thumb luxuriantly over the tip. He notes with a little smile how Sunstreaker watches his hand and the small shifts of his fingers as he squeezes them in a wave pattern. “Getting close?” he asks after he feels Sunstreaker’s hips stutter.

“Yeah,” Sunstreaker replies, voice airy. Ratchet spits in his hand and, making a show of it, swipes it over the whole of Sunstreaker’s spike, base to tip. To Ratchet's mischievous delight, Sunstreaker spits a note of static as he conspicuously stares at the hand massaging his spike. “I don’t know what it is,” the twin pants, “but your hands always feel so fucking amazing. L-Love how they look, too.”

Ratchet rarely gets Sunstreaker to stutter, and hearing the little hesitation makes the corner of his mouth quirk upward. On his next slow, deliberate stroke, he makes sure to flex the tendons in his hand as he squeezes, making them draw tight and raise visibly. Ratchet counts it as a success when he sees Sunstreaker bite his lip as he stares at the hand sliding up and down his spike.

Before he can have any more fun, though, Sunstreaker claps a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. “Stop  _ teasing, _ for Primus’ sake, and get me off.”

His voice is breathless and panting, enough to get Ratchet to roll his eyes. “So  _ needy,” _ he admonishes but speeds up to a quick, mechanical pace.

Even as he moves to finally let Sunstreaker finish, he takes a moment to admire the work of art he has the privilege of holding. Ratchet’s hand glides easily over the beautiful detailing of Sunstreaker’s spike, vibrant gold shining wetly as the tiny, baroque details of engraved swirl patterns and little fleurons gleam under Ratchet’s hand. Sunstreaker could be very, very vain indeed, but it showed in his beautiful plating.

Soon, Sunstreaker’s back arches a little and gasps a slurred word that sounds like a warning. After several more pumps, Sunstreaker yelps “ _ Primus, _ Ratchet!” and finally tips over the edge. Sunstreaker comes  _ hard _ , to Ratchet's surprise, obvious in the sharp angle his spine takes and the amount of transfluid that suddenly coats Ratchet’s face and even a bit on his chest. Slowing his pace, he keeps stroking Sunstreaker through it; it takes a long time for Sunstreaker to fully finish, his spike throbbing against his palm and still oozing transfluid for far longer than he would expect, especially for just a handjob alone.

Once his spike finally starts to depressurise, Sunstreaker relaxes, his usually proud, straight back hunching over slightly as he catches his breath. Ratchet watches with a little bit of awe, one optic closed against an impressive line of transfluid that arcs from his cheek to the base of his chevron, taken aback at just how hard he got Sunstreaker to cum.

After a moment, Sunstreaker reaches a hand up and cradles Ratchet’s face in one hand, sliding a thumb through the transfluid on his cheek. “I’m not usually fond of messes,” he says, “but on you, it’s… tolerable to look at.”

Ratchet laughs a little and rolls his eyes at that. “I’ll accept ‘tolerable’.”

Guess Sunstreaker really does have a thing for his hands.

* * *

Sunstreaker pauses in the middle of repainting his shin, one ankle crossed primly over his knee. When the soft, steady sound of brushstrokes stop, Ratchet turns from his datapad to look over at Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker pulls the brush away from his leg and says the last thing Ratchet would ever expect to come out of his mouth. “You want to do some of this for me?”

If Ratchet had eyebrows, they would have shot up to his chevron. He blinks at Sunstreaker, a little dumbstruck, but manages to keep it under control. Recognising the hint of hesitation lurking behind the ostensibly casual question, he knows not to react poorly, unless he wants a closed-off, defensive Sunstreaker on his hands; especially considering the subject of his paints.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sideswipe glance up from his video game from across the room. He keeps his head facing the game, but Ratchet sees his pupils glance over at Ratchet and Sunstreaker, sharing the golden twin's berth.

“I’d love to, if you’re offering,” Ratchet says. “I always thought the only scenario you’d let another mech do your own paints for is your funeral -- and even then, your ghost would be there to critique and complain the whole way.”

Sunstreaker scoffs but offers him the brush handle. “I'm letting you do a spot that's both easy to do and easy to fix. No tiny pieces of kibble or detailling, just this flat plane around the piston there. I want to see what you do.”

Ratchet sets down his datapad and turns fully to Sunstreaker, grabbing the brush incredulously with a huge amount of care, like he's being offered a rare artefact from a museum. “Sure," he says, his casual tone not betraying the nerves he feels at being the one to hold a paintbrush over Sunstreaker's immaculate gilding.

Ratchet daubs the brush in the palette of yellow hues Sunstreaker pushes towards him -- "That one," he says, pointing at one particular shade that honestly looks similar to all the other swatches -- and leans in to work.

Ratchet is very careful as he paints one long line up the plating, coating the tiny scratches and imperfections with a glossy, wet trail. He can feel both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe watching him and, feeling a little on the spot, focuses his entire processing power just on making straight brushstrokes.

Once he gets into the rhythm of it, though, repainting Sunstreaker turns out to be a little relaxing. Feeling slightly more confident, he smoothly navigates the brush around corners and traces edges with a steady hand. It's only when he's about to move on to Sunstreaker's shin that he glances up at the owner of his canvas.

Sunstreaker is watching him keenly, optics bright and face glowing lightly with lavender. His cooling fans hum softly, at a low level, yet audibly.

Putting two and two together, Ratchet smiles knowingly and spins the brush between his fingers, laughing on the inside as Sunstreaker's optics snap to the quick, dexterous motion. "So? How am I doing?" he asks casually, making Sideswipe snort in the background. Naturally, his twin would've figured out what was happening, probably well before Ratchet.

Sunstreaker takes a deep breath like he's coming out of a trance, visibly having to register the question. Regaining himself, he shrugs and says dismissively, "It's adequate."

"Adequate, huh?"

"You missed a spot." He points to a place where Ratchet knows for a fact he didn't miss. Still, he obligingly daubs more paint on the brush and repaints the area, taking care to smooth out the brush texture to a fine finish, making his movements as precise as possible.

Once he finishes, Ratchet glances up at Sunstreaker. "Mind if I do the front?"

Sunstreaker looks off to the side, making a show of contemplating Ratchet's work. "Hm. I  _ guess  _ so. Just don't frag it up too badly."

"I won't," Ratchet promises, and lets Sunstreaker rotate his leg so he can work another section. He falls easily back into the smooth, steady rhythm, Sunstreaker watching his hands work all the while.

  
  



End file.
